Maid in the Iron Mask
by MagicWords1
Summary: After suffering six years in prison for no known reason, young Phillipa is thrust into a world of royal conspiracy when three former musketeers give her the chance to replace her elder sister, Louisa, as Queen of France. It seems a hopeless plan, but a sudden attraction to Louisa's betrothed, Prince Bertrand, ignites the fires of treachery that cannot be doused with an iron mask.


Disclaimer: I own none of the rights to this story, but ever since I read the book and saw the 1998 film, I have toyed with the idea of a gender-swapped _Man in the Iron Mask _rendition. My story will loosely follow the events of the film, but will consist of a few gender tradings and plot alterations. Again, I own none of the original material, and this is purely an inventive fic for those who love the myths behind the story as much as I do.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter One: The Prison Stones of Hell<em>

The night passes same as every night before it: cold, isolate, starless.

After so many nights in hell, one might grow accustomed to such misery, but not I. Where straw and rot dampen beneath puddles of river sewage, I lay my head. Snatches of moonlight seep through the iron bars set high in the cell grate, but never does the moon reveal its full face to my curious eyes. Mist off the charging sea blankets the stars. The night is nothing but blackness and fog, punctuated with the crashes of heavy surf breaking over prison walls and the occasional whiff of rusty iron.

My prison cell is peculiar, for the walls are made of jagged rock, but the ceiling narrows the higher it climbs till it meets the grate. Ocean spray floods the flagstone when the storms blow strongest, and yet, I'm thankful the small opening exists. Many a night, I have scaled the walls and held fast to the bars to breathe in the salty air and steal glimpses of the moon. The small reminders of the outside world keep the meager fire of hope aflame within me; that perhaps God has not abandoned me.

But 'tis nothing more than a reminder of my imprisonment when even arching my neck in a hanged man's manner does not grant me the sight of the one star I ache to see...

Tonight, I refuse to give in to the moon's temptation, for climbing the walls brings nothing but painful disappointment. I lay aside my Bible, which I have read cover to moldy cover more times than a priest, rearrange the sackcloth I've worn for the worse half of my life, and settle down on the prison stones for a freezing night of ill rest.

But I cannot sleep. My waking nightmares ward off all hope for dreams. From where I lay, I see nothing but an empty bowl beside the bolted door. In the morning, a prison guard will ladle a mouthful of slop through a slot near the floor. Other than an evening guard who brings my supper and dumps my chamber pot in the sea, 'tis my only human interaction. 'Tis lonely, for the guards rarely speak.

My day is measured by the quick openings of a slot in the door. Measuring weeks is different. I have learned to keep track of them by marking lines on the wall with the corner of a sharp stone I found when I was first imprisoned. Once every seven days, a guard slides a tiny rolled up scroll through the door slot. Tonight is the end of the seven day week, and though I know what to expect, I stay awake to watch the slot slide open. I'm granted one fleeting glimpse of an empty stone corridor. Then a gloved hand appears, drops a scroll on the ground, and the slot is slammed closed.

'Tis the same every seven days. My stomach sinks, but I crawl to pick up the message. The cracks in the flagstone are clogged with scrolls of weeks gone by.

I then crawl over to the wall, pick up the stone I've hidden underneath a pile of straw, and mark the wall. If my calculations amount to anything, I have wasted away in this cell for six long, torturous years.

I do not open the scroll, for I already know what it says. The words have been the same for weeks and weeks and weeks. Instead, I fashion the scrap into a paper boat. Years of practice has perfected the art, and I carefully set the makeshift hull down in the closest puddle. It sails until it capsizes against a moldy piece of straw. Same as any escape from my prison, 'tis impossible.

The boat sinks into the water and curls open. The inked words, **_You dead yet? _**burn up at me. The ink is wet, so I know my tormentor does not send these messages himself. I've deduced the warden is paid by my oppressor to mock me with these words.

For what reason, I know not.

And by whom, I know not.

My only comfort is remembering times from my youth. Before imprisonment, my existence was simple. I lived in a remote country house with an old woman and a deaf priest. The woman was not my mother, nor my grandmother, but she cared for me with a stern kindness I learned to respect. I had no friends, but the priest gave me an education. I learned to read and write and do equations before I learned what it meant to be an orphan.

Then one day, an entourage of men on horseback came for me. Their leader—a man in black, whose face I never saw—placed a bag over my head and whisked me, without explanation, from my home. I tried to struggle, but the leader's men kept me properly restrained. After hours on horseback and another hour sailing over angry waves, my captor yanked off the bag, and I found myself in the heart of a remote prison.

But 'twas not the worst of my suffering. As I begged the question, "What have I done? Please, sirs, tell me what I've done!" the leader in black forced my face into a mask—an iron mask, warm from the forger's fire and equipped with an inescapable padlock. I remember screaming as I fought to breathe through the bitter, suffocating metalwork and tried to wrestle the contraption off my head, all while my captors threw me into a cell made of stone and chains. Whoever had committed a crime heinous enough to deserve an iron mask remained free in the world, while I was locked away without a trial.

Without an explanation.

Now, I touch the mask and mistake it for my own skin. I have given up pleading for my innocence. The guards never listen, and the leader in black has never returned to set me free. For whatever reason, my oppressor—perhaps the leader in black?—believes I have reason to live out my years like a bird trapped in a cage.

The only conclusion I've been able to reach is that perhaps something about my _face _requires concealment. For if I am never to be let out of my cell, even by prison guards, what other reason did the men in black have for hiding my identity?

'Tis a question I have kept, but will never find an answer for. Not likely, at least.

I am prisoner number 64389000, and shall remain for the rest of my years, as thus.

The maid in the iron mask.


End file.
